


Takes Off Against the Wind

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire expects to thoroughly hate his flight from Chicago to New York, but he doesn't expect to meet the gorgeous man sitting next to him. There's just one problem - said guy is in a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Takes Off Against the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Henry Ford quote: “When everything seems to be going against you, remember that the airplane takes off against the wind, not with it.”
> 
> The originally published version of this (on tumblr) inadvertently implied there was something wrong with polyamorous or open relationships. That was never my intention, so I've done a bit of tweaking to hopefully fix the issue. If it persists, however, please note that it is absolutely unintended and I apologize in advance.
> 
> Beyond that, usual disclaimer applies. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

It wasn’t that Grantaire disliked flying.

A lot of people thought that, when Grantaire told them that he would actually rather drive for three days than take a four-hour flight, and he supposed it was an easy mistake to make. But what Grantaire actually hated were  _planes_.

Was there a worse invention that man had devised? Grantaire didn’t think so. They were glorified torture devices, in his opinion — crowding people in like cattle, making them breathe the same stale air, hell, having to pretend that you cared about the large old woman sitting next to you and showing you pictures of her grandkids for four hours straight, and then on top of that, adding insult to injury,  _charging_  you for alcohol.

Which was why he was in a particularly foul mood, since his agent all but forced him on a flight to New York for a showing of his art in a gallery.

It was a good opportunity, even he had to grudgingly admit that, but it wasn’t like his agent shelled out for first class — no, Grantaire was shoved in a seat in the back of a particularly rickety-looking plane, close enough to the lavatories for the smell to carry but far enough that he’d probably trip over someone on his way back.

The sole redeeming factor of the whole trip came in the form of a harried-looking man roughly Grantaire’s age who had the middle seat, because  _damn_. Grantaire wondered what the etiquette was on drawing random strangers sitting next to you because this man practically screamed to be drawn and painted and immortalized in every medium. He had blond curls like out of a renaissance painting, and a face that would make Grantaire do very,  _very_  bad things (and his mind wandered onto the subject of the possibility of joining the mile high club…).

But while Grantaire was contemplating the variety of filthy things he would do with the man sitting next to him, the man in question had pulled his laptop out of his battered messenger bag and was typing furiously on it. Grantaire raised an eyebrow at the speed with which the man’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “Writing a novel or something?” he asked.

"Pardon?" the man replied, looking up at Grantaire for the first time and  _Christ_ , it should be criminal for someone’s eyes to be that blue.

Grantaire flushed slightly but carried on regardless. “Your typing,” he said, nodding at his laptop. “I was wondering if you were writing a book.”

The man at least cracked a smile at that, though he returned his attention to his computer even as he told Grantaire, “No, but I was just in Chicago for a book signing.”

Grantaire nodded, leaning back in his seat. “So you wrote a book. That must’ve been nice.”

"What?" the man asked, distracted. "No, it wasn’t my book, it was my partner’s. Combeferre. He’s an author."

"Oh," Grantaire said, vaguely disappointed. Of course, the guy was with someone. It didn’t really surprise him, as attractive as the guy was, but — still. "What do you do, then?"

"I own a publishing house," the man said nonchalantly, as if it was the most normal occupation in the world. "I got kicked out of university — long story — and wanted to publish a book on what I went through and the state of political protests on college campuses today, but no one would publish it. So I did it myself. That was the only thing I’ve ever written, though. The New York Times called it borderline seditious."

He looked so proud of that fact that Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. “So what, now you publish other people’s sedition?”

The man laughed as well and shook his head, finishing whatever he had been typing and closing his laptop. “Not quite. We publish a bunch of things that other places won’t touch. Poetry, a medical journal on unconventional techniques, a political science review — well, you get the idea. The book that Combeferre just had published was about moths.” He held his hand out to Grantaire. “I’m Enjolras, by the way.”

"Grantaire," he responded, shaking his hand and trying not to let the touch linger for too long and adding, though Enjolras had not asked, "I’m an artist."

Enjolras smiled slightly. “Well that sounds more interesting than publishing.”

Grantaire nodded sagely. “Oh, sure, it’s a real challenge to see how many penises I can hide in a painting without anyone noticing.”

Enjolras threw his head back and laughed, and Grantaire grinned. Enjolras had a beautiful laugh — was there a part of him that  _wasn’t_  beautiful? If it wasn’t for Enjolras’s boyfriend, Grantaire would have been tempted to find out.

As it was, he was decent enough company for the flight. Which is to say, all they did the entire time was argue. Enjolras, unsurprisingly, was political. Grantaire, though apathetic, could not help but push the man’s buttons because, well, Enjolras looked even more beautiful with his face flushed as he gestured passionately about…well, anything, really. Grantaire was pretty sure he would have listened to him read the phone book.

And for his part, Enjolras seemed to enjoy talking to Grantaire as well. He laughed at all Grantaire’s jokes, save the ones made at the expense of Enjolras’s more fervent beliefs, and had a smile on his face basically the entire time.

And for the first time Grantaire found he didn’t mind the plane so much.

But all good things had to come to an end, and they landed sooner than either of them expected, too caught up in an argument over the merits of the nomenclature ‘Obamacare’ in terms of brand recognition. As they taxied to the gate, Enjolras broke off mid-sentence, looking almost disappointed. “I guess we’re here,” he said, then hesitated. “Look, I never do this, but…could I maybe get your number?”

Grantaire stared at him. “My number?” he repeated. “What do you want my number for?”

Enjolras stared back at him, his brow furrowed. “So that I can call you?” he said, as if it was obvious, which, yes, it was, but still—

"Why do you want to call me?"

If possible, Enjolras looked even more confused. “Because I had a shockingly good time, and I normally hate flying. Because I want to show you that New York pizza can be even better than Chicago pizza.” They had argued over that quite fervently. “Because—” And here he blushed, which made Grantaire’s heart skip a beat “—because I wanted to ask you out.”

Grantaire realized his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it with a snap, his tone turning frosty as he asked, “And what would  _Combeferre_ think of that?”

Now Enjolras looked baffled. “Combeferre? I don’t really think he’d care all that much. I mean, I wouldn’t care if our positions were reversed.”

Grantaire bristled at that, because how  _dare_  this asshole be so cavalier about the whole damn thing, as if he propositioned a guy for an affair every day of the goddamn week? “I don't know what the fuck is going on between you and Combeferre," he growled in a low voice, "but I'm pretty sure I don't want any part of it. If you can be so callous as to completely disregard his feelings, how the hell would you treat mine?”

"Combeferre’s feelings?" Enjolras repeated, sounding completely lost. "But what do they have to do with anything?"

"Everything!" Grantaire half-shouted, ignoring that half of the plane seemed to turn in their direction. "I don’t know what kind of impression I seem to have given you, but I’m not about just randomly hooking up or whatever you think is going to happen here!"

With that, he unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed his bag, and stood, making his way to the front of the plane where the flight attendants had just opened the doors, ignoring the people he jostled along the way, tears pricking in his eyes.

He didn’t see the way Enjolras remained frozen in his seat, a hurt look on his face.

* * *

 

In retrospect, it was probably a little rude of him.

In retrospect, he probably should have let him explain.

In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have raided his hotel room’s mini fridge and passed out in the middle of the afternoon.

But Grantaire wasn’t big on thinking retrospectively. And it’s not like it would’ve change anything anyway.

Right?

* * *

 

The art show went about as well as anyone could expect, with several pieces sold to high profile buyers and the verbal promise of future shows, but Grantaire couldn’t enjoy it, and not just because of the  _massive_  hangover he was nursing. He couldn’t get Enjolras out of his head, no matter how much he wanted to.

And he  _definitely_  wanted to.

Sure, there was a part of him that was flattered that someone that hot wanted to use him for sex, and a few years ago, Grantaire probably would’ve gone for the no-strings-attached thing. But he had actually, genuinely  _liked_ Enjolras, no matter how brief their meeting, to the point of daydreaming about what it would be like to move to NYC, and that just wasn’t  _healthy_. Grantaire hadn’t quite given up all his vices, but he was hardly going to walk eyes-wide-open into heartbreak, no matter how attractive the man in question was.

So he got through his show and he let the gallery owner take him out to dinner, and he tried not to think of Enjolras, and he tried not to let the fact that he would never see Enjolras again bother him (no matter the fact that it did).

The next day he made his way to the airport early, already dreading the flight ahead of him. But to his shock, once he got through security and was halfway to his gate, he heard someone call his name and turned to see Enjolras running towards him.

Grantaire’s first reaction was to smile, but it quickly lost to his reaction to scowl. “What the  _hell_  are you doing here?” he demanded.

"It occurred to me," Enjolras said, panting as he caught his breath, "you may have gotten the wrong idea."

Grantaire just stared at him. “Yeah, I thought you were a sane person, but I guess I was wrong?”

Enjolras waved his hand dismissively, still half-bent over as he wheezed. “No, not that,” he said impatiently. “About Combeferre. My partner. My  _business_ partner.”

Suddenly, the entire world seemed to make sense, and Grantaire felt the grin he had been struggling to contain start to spread across his face as Enjolras continued, “When I got back to my apartment I was telling the whole story to Courfeyrac — who  _is_  Combeferre’s partner — and when I explained that you seemed offended that I wanted your number, he asked how I had introduced Combeferre and then he started hitting me, repeatedly, because apparently I’m a — and I’m quoting here — ‘complete fucking idiot who has probably lost the only good thing to ever come out of Chicago’ — you’ve got to realize Courf is a born and bred New Yorker so he thinks every other city is inferior, and—”

"Enjolras," Grantaire said calmly, "shut up."

Enjolras looked offended. “Why?”

"Because I’m going to kiss you."

And Grantaire did, closing the space between them and kissing Enjolras. He hadn’t intended it to be much of anything but then Enjolras let out a little whimpering noise when Grantaire tried to pull away and balled his hands in the back of Grantaire’s t-shirt, keeping him in place.

When they finally did break apart, it wasn’t to move very far away, still close enough that their noses just touched. “How did you find me here?” Grantaire asked, just as breathless as Enjolras, if for markedly different reasons.

"You’re going to think I’m crazy," Enjolras said hedgingly, and Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him.

"And I don’t already?"

Enjolras laughed. “Fair point.” Still, he blushed slightly and said, “I sent all of my friends to every art show I could find listing of yesterday until we figured out the one you were at, and then once I did, I had one of my friends buy one of your pieces so that I could get your agent’s contact information, then I called  _her_  to get your flight information. Then I bought a ticket to…” He glanced at his boarding and said in a mildly surprised tone, “Albuquerque, apparently, and waited for you.”

Grantaire stared at him, open-mouthed. “You are crazy,” he said in a dazed sort of voice.

Enjolras blushed even redder. “Told you so.” He bit his lip. “Good crazy or bad crazy?”

In answer, Grantaire kissed him again.

* * *

 

Grantaire called his agent and had her arrange for a later flight so that he could actually talk to Enjolras, and they sat in the airport Starbucks and did just that.

Enjolras explained himself and asked Grantaire’s forgiveness both for the miscommunication — which Grantaire took partial credit for — as well as for more or less stalking Grantaire. “At least it was stalking with honorable intentions,” Grantaire volunteered in Enjolras’s defense.

Enjolras shook his head vehemently. “The intentions hardly matter — the statistics on how many people, women especially, are stalked annually are overwhelming, and to be a part of that—”

Grantaire reached out and grabbed his hand. “Hey, you had limited resources at your disposal. And as I don’t think you’re likely to do it again, kindly don’t beat yourself up over it. Especially when I leave for Chicago in only a few hours. Ok?”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “Speaking of Chicago,” he said hesitantly, “how would you feel about me coming out to visit you?”

Raising an eyebrow, Grantaire said slowly, “Well, that’d be fine, but I can only imagine that your work isn’t likely to take you out that way again soon?”

"Well, I’d come visit you regardless of business," Enjolras said, though he sounded nervous. "And, see, it’s part of the reason why I wanted to get the stalking bit cleared up. We’re thinking of expanding, opening a Chicago office. Combeferre’s been offered a position with the University of Chicago, and he  _is_  my partner, though not my  _romantic partner_. So I might be moving there at least temporarily.” He snuck a look at Grantaire’s face and hastily added, “And if you don’t want any part of this, or if you think this is moving  _way_  too quickly, I’ve already had Courfeyrac draw up a legal filing for a restraining order on your behalf.”

Grantaire shook his head slowly. “It  _is_  fast,” he said, “but I get the feeling you don’t do anything halfway. And god knows I don’t want this to end. So no need to file that restraining order — yet.”

Enjolras grinned and was about to respond when the loudspeaker in the airport crackled and a voice said, “Mr. Enjolras, please report to gate A12, your flight to Albuquerque is about to depart.”

They both looked at each other and began to laugh. “How much time do you have before your flight leaves?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire looked at the electronic boarding pass his agent had sent to his phone. “I’ve got a few hours. What did you have in mind?”

Enjolras stood and offered Grantaire his hand. “I believe I owe you a slice of pizza.”

Grantaire laughed. “I was hoping for something with less clothes involved,” he admitted. “But fair is fair, and then I insist on doing the same when you get to Chicago.”

Enjolras made a face. “That’s not pizza,” he protested. “It’s a  _casserole_.” Then he paused, realizing what Grantaire had first said. “But less clothes can definitely be arranged.”

Laughing, Grantaire took his hand. “Pizza first,” he said firmly. “Then we’ll go from there.”

* * *

 

Grantaire called his agent to push his flight to the next day. His suitcase was already somewhere over the Appalachians, but it wasn’t like Grantaire really needed clothes at the moment anyway.

* * *

 

The next day, Enjolras drove Grantaire to the airport and grinned at the fact that Grantaire was wearing one of Enjolras’s shirts. “So I’ll see you in Chicago,” Enjolras said as they lingered outside of security.

"Absolutely," Grantaire promised. "I’ll be there."

They kissed once more and then Grantaire headed into the line, waving at Enjolras once more before he disappeared from sight. And when he got his bag from the X-ray scanner, he found he already had an email from Enjolras — “Miss you already.”

And Grantaire found he didn’t mind that flight much at all, barely even noticing that a baby across the aisle from him screamed half of the time. Planes weren’t so bad, after all, he mused. Not so bad at all.


End file.
